


ranger panties

by simplyclockwork



Series: oh captain, my captain [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Meeting, Appearance of the Johnaconda, Captain John Watson, First Kiss, Gratuitous references to dirty lyrics in 90s songs, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Military Kink, Not Canon Compliant, Oral Sex, POV Sherlock Holmes, Public Sex, Rough Sex, Sherlock Size Queen Holmes, Sherlock comes in his pants at least once, THIS IS INAPPROPRIATE CRACK OKAY, many many innuendos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:01:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24100264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: While in London on leave, Captain John Watson and a particularly intriguing article of clothing manage to catch the attention of one consulting detective.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: oh captain, my captain [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1740022
Comments: 92
Kudos: 330





	ranger panties

**Author's Note:**

  * For [InkAtHeart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkAtHeart/gifts).



> InkatHeart and I spend far too much time coming up with these hilarious ideas for Johnlock fics on discord and I do not regret a single second of it.
> 
> This may be one of my most ridiculous, most inappropriate fics and I'm not one bit sorry for anything in it. 
> 
> **Prepare yourself for many silly, military and penis metaphors. You have been warned.**

Unless it involves chasing criminals, running has never interested Sherlock Holmes. Not as a fitness routine, as a past-time, or a hobby. Throwing on stretchy clothing just to huff and puff his aimless way through smoggy London air in the name of ‘health’? He would rather be shot. These are his tried-and-true beliefs on the subject until one spring morning when Sherlock finds himself in a post-case slump on a bench in Regent’s Park, and something changes his mind.

That ‘something’ is a compact, well-built military man. Said man is out for a jog in a pair of what Sherlock believes are called ‘Silkies’ in the armed forces but really look more like camo-patterned men's booty shorts. The man is on the shorter side, but what he lacks in height, he makes up for in evident strength. He boasts a very toned, very bare upper body, and powerful, squeeze-to-death thighs that make Sherlock’s mouth fill with drool. 

When the man approaches in his running circuit, Sherlock’s back isn’t the only thing that goes stiff. The stranger’s face is gleaming with sweat, short blonde hair damp and darkened and plastered to his forehead as the early morning sun beats onto his gold skin. 

As he passes, Sherlock almost imagines he can taste that skin, all salt and sea breeze wet, washing over his tongue like a tidal wave. Eyes wide, lips parting with a flick of his tongue, pants suddenly too-tight, Sherlock realizes he must be painfully obvious in his ogling.

His gaze drops with heat-seeking missile precision to the short-shorts covered area of the man’s anatomy. The swaying evidence there makes his pulse race, the sizeable bulge more than big enough to impress size queens worse than he. 

The man looks to be singing along to whatever is playing in his headphones. Squinting, Sherlock makes out the words, _kiss the tip, gently flow, be my ho._

Nearly choking on his mouthful of drool, Sherlock watches the man jog onward, the cord of his headphones swaying in time with his smooth, loping pace. He stares until the stranger disappears over a hill, noting the shorts do wonders for both the front _and_ the back of the man’s sculpted physique. 

Sherlock sags against the back of the bench and tries not to drown in his own spit, gasping for air. He feels dizzy, all the blood in his head having rushed southward. The park begins to wake around him. With 6 am slipping toward seven, then eight, people start wandering into the area, producing noise and presence that finally drives the humming lust out of his body.

Once his pants are no longer excruciatingly tight, trousers no longer tented, Sherlock stands. With a sigh, he sweeps his coat around himself and hurries back to his flat to wank himself blind at the memory of the soldier’s swaying bayonet. 

***

The next day, Sherlock nearly throws himself to his own death, hurtling down the stairs at quarter to six in the morning. The noise brings his landlady into the hall, watching with hands on hips as he extracts himself from a tangle of doormat and coat. 

“Sherlock! What are you doing, running down the stairs like that?” 

“Not _now,_ Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock bellows, stuffing his feet into a pair of boots. Later, he will realize they do not match, but right now, all he can feel is his panic at missing a second glimpse of the soldier’s well-endowed firing range. 

Mrs. Hudson lets out a disapproving hum, muttering something about the neighbours that Sherlock chooses to ignore in favour of blasting out the front door in an all-out sprint for the park. 

By the time he collapses on the bench from the day before, shooing away several birds fighting over a greasy paper bag, it is five minutes to six. Settling himself, legs crossed, Sherlock vibrates with eager energy. 

5:59 comes and passes, and his excitement flags. Just as he is shifting to stand, watch ticking to 55 seconds into 6 am, teeth pressing into his pout of bitter disappointment, the man appears over the rise. His head arrives first, brow furrowed and shining, followed by formidable shoulders and arms that move in a controlled swing. Then comes the powerful chest and taut stomach before the lower half, all pumping legs and a different pair of silkies. These are dark blue, slippery material doing _very_ little to conceal a certain swaying, dangling torpedo that, unlike the day before, turns Sherlock’s mouth desert dry this time. 

He chokes on his own tongue and swallows down the urge to chant worship to the Adonis heading his way. Lips gone numb with a sudden wave of panic, Sherlock wonders if he should say something. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out, and the man passes him by, the rising sun bouncing off the perfectly rounded form of his shapely rear.

The stranger’s lips are moving as he runs past, thin lips mouthing, _“so sweet, you make my mouth water.”_

Once again, Sherlock finds himself melting against the bench in the aftermath, body aching for release. Today, he noticed the man’s eyes were blue, nearly the same hue as those blessed shorts. The knowledge will prove to be fantastic wank-fodder, which Sherlock intends to put to _very_ good use.

***

The following morning, Mrs. Hudson beats him to the door. Arms crossed, she stands in his way, kitten heel-clad foot tapping resolutely against the hardwood floor.

“Sherlock Holmes, where are you off to at this hour?” she demands and Sherlock groans, reaching out to grab her shoulders in an iron-clad grip.

“For Pete’s sake, Mrs. Hudson, it is nearly 6 o’clock! If you make me miss him, I will _never_ forgive you!”

A sly glint rises in his landlady’s eyes. “Him? Who is ‘him’?”

Sherlock tries not to rip out his hair. “If I let you come with me, do you promise not to be slow?” 

Mrs. Hudson grins.

***

Having his landlady beside him during his now-daily voyeurism seems a little strange, but Sherlock is more than willing to consider such things later when he is not awaiting the appearance of God’s gift to consulting detectives. 

“Sherlock, what are we waiting for?”

 _“Hush,_ Mrs. Hudson!!!” Sherlock’s shout startles birds from a nearby tree, and she shoots him a glare. Sherlock doesn’t care, eyes fixed on the far-off hill. It is almost 6, and the man will be on time, Sherlock knows this. Military, with the rigid schedule of a soldier: the stranger will not be late.

As his watch ticks over to 06:00, the man appears. Beside Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson stops wittering on and pulls in a breath, exhaling a soft, “Oh.”

Nodding, Sherlock watches the man jog toward them, muscled thighs barely clad in a pair of red silkies today. 

“Yes,” he whispers reverently, _“Oh.”_

The man nears their bench, his hefty gear moving with the rocking of his body, evident and miraculous against the soft front of the shorts. Drool threatens to trickle from the corner of Sherlock’s lips, and Mrs. Hudson smacks his arm.

“Sherlock! Stop staring, it’s not decent.”

Sherlock flutters his hands at her, scowling but never looking away from the carnal brilliance before them. He doesn’t care if it’s decent, inappropriate, or full-on illegal, he’s going to look and he’s going to do it until his eyes dry up and fall out of his head.

This time, when the man passes, he casts a brief, curious glance their way, eyes sliding unseeing over both of them before looking forward once more. His lips shape the words, _lick him like a lollipop should be licked_ , and Sherlock nearly dies. Or comes in his pants. Or both. 

After he disappears over the next rise, Sherlock turns boneless, sucking in loud breaths as if he just emerged from holding his breath under the ocean. 

“Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson exclaims, alarmed. Sherlock waves away her concern, heart thudding like it might explode inside his chest.

“Oh, God, Mrs. Hudson. He looked at me! _He looked at me!”_

Cool hands pat his forehead. “I think he looked at the squirrel behind you, Sherlock, dear, but sure.”

Sherlock shakes his head, babbling incoherently. “No, no, he looked _at me_. I’m dying, I’m going to die, oh my _GOD_ , Mrs. Hudson!”

Watching the detective slump into a pathetic puddle of shock, his landlady sighs, “Oh, dear.” 

***

When Sherlock opens the door to his flat the next morning, Detective-Inspector Lestrade is the one barring his way to escape. 

“Oh god, Gavin. What do you want? I’m _busy.”_

Casting a critical eye over Sherlock’s hastily thrown on clothing, Lestrade frowns. “At 6 am? You’re usually dead to the world or just heading to bed. Actually, I was hoping to ambush you.” The frown deepens. “Wait—where are you going this early?” 

“None of your business, Greg!” Sherlock snaps, getting Lestrade’s first name right in his haste to reach the park. A hand stops him and he snarls, swinging around on the older man. _“What!”_

“Sherlock…” Lestrade studies his face. “You’ve been turning down cases and you don’t look like yourself.” His eyes widen. “You’re not—”

“Jesus Christ,” Sherlock hisses. “No, Lestrade, I am not using! I have somewhere to be.”

Drifting from downstairs, Mrs. Hudson’s voice reaches them both, “Sherlock, it’s nearly six!”

“Oh, god,” Lestrade turns shocked eyes on him. “You’ve dragged your _landlady_ into whatever this is?”

“AHH!” Sherlock shouts, flailing his arms until he breaks Lestrade’s hold. “Shut up and come with us, then, if you’re going to insist on doing your best impression of a blockade!” With that, he thunders downstairs with Lestrade on his heels. Standing by the door, nearly vibrating with Sherlock’s spreading anxiety, Mrs. Hudson is wringing her hands. 

“We’re going to miss it, Sherlock!”

“No, we are not!” Sherlock snaps, grabbing her hand and towing her out the door at a run. Lestrade follows, utterly gobsmacked, pausing only to shoot a confused glance at a nearby CCTV camera when it swivels in their direction. Offering a shrug, he hurries after Sherlock’s swaying coat and Mrs. Hudson’s twittering.

***

It’s glorious. Even with Mrs. Hudson’s excited little clap and Lestrade’s muttered, “what the hell?” Sherlock is no less blinded by the light that is the oncoming soldier’s perfectly round nipples. They are peaked, rounded little pebbles. Sherlock’s lips pucker, wondering if they taste as pink and delicious as they look.

Seated between his landlady and the DI of NSY, Sherlock tries to keep his tongue in his mouth, but it flicks out despite his best efforts. 

Today, the silkies (ranger panties, Sherlock corrects himself, a term learned after much ‘research’ online the night before) are a deep purple. Eyes fixed on them, Sherlock thinks of royalty, of eggplants, of things shaped like eggplants but infinitely better tasting and, hopefully, as pink and golden as the skin of the soldier’s chest. 

The running man passes within inches, diverting around a pile of dog leavings on his way by. His long, golden eyelashes flutter in a grimace as sweat runs into one blue eye and Sherlock’s tongue darts out again as if he can taste it. The man’s smell, musk and salt, fill his senses and turn him to liquid. He catches the soldier’s sing-song, _“bye, bye, bye.”_ Or maybe it's _“bi, bi, bi,”_ which Sherlock fervently hopes is a proclamation of the stranger’s sexuality and not the refrain of some inane pop song. 

Breathless, he hopes he will have the chance to find out.

***

The next day brings Molly Hooper to his door, Lestrade hovering at her shoulder. With Mrs. Hudson at his side, Sherlock sighs.

“Come on, then.”

With his little troop in tow, Sherlock settles on his usual bench. Irritated, he wonders how the soldier will possibly fail to miss the growing group of people watching his morning runs.

But then, he comes over the rise and the ire dissipates. Sherlock proceeds to forget how to think or breathe or exist because the shorts are sheer black today with small mesh panels on the sides that show off a tighter spandex short beneath. 

And they are shorter than the silkies. 

“Jesus, Sherlock, breathe!” Lestrade’s hand slams against his back, smacking between his shoulder blades, and Sherlock chokes out a breath as the soldier approaches. 

His eyes—blue, definitely, perfectly blue—meet Sherlock’s, one blonde eyebrow rising. Something like concern passes over the soldier’s face, and Sherlock nearly dies of spontaneous combustion when the soldier’s feet falter as if considering stopping. 

But Greg waves him on, calling, “He’s fine!”

The soldier continues on, ducking his head once before facing forward and singing, “ _Gotta rub me the right way, honey.”_

Eyes bugging out of his head, blessing his lip-reading talents, Sherlock makes a mental note to murder Garth Lestrade with his bare hands later. 

***

When the sun begins to rise, Sherlock dresses and slips out through the second-floor window. Shimmying down the drainpipe, he heaves a sigh of relief at shaking his entourage. Shaking out his hair, smoothing hands down his tight t-shirt, he sets out toward the park.

As soon as his bench comes into view, his hands clench into fists. 

“ _Why_ are you here?!” he wails, taking in the small gathering huddled on his targeted bench. Greg, sitting between Mrs. Hudson and Molly, Donovan and Anderson hovering behind him, tosses him a grin. 

“We’re here…” his brow furrows and smoothes, grin widening, “for moral support!” 

“I hope you all die. Preferably within the next ten seconds.” At Mrs. Hudson’s glare, Sherlock adds, “Except for you, Mrs. Hudson. Someone has to make me tea.” 

Donovan’s voice breaks in as he scours the distance for gold skin and sweaty hair. “What are you _wearing_ , freak?”

Sherlock sniffs. “Haven’t you ever seen _shorts?”_

Her eyes wander over his skinny, pale legs. “Yeah, I have. On you? No.” She feigns a wince and covers her eyes. “Ah, I think I’ve gone blind.”

“Good!” Sherlock snaps, turning his back to her as he begins to stretch. “Maybe your mouth will stop working soon, too.” 

“Charming.” 

Opening his mouth to retort, Sherlock freezes mid-stretch as the soldier appears. Six o’clock is upon them. Going by Molly’s high-pitched squeak, Sherlock is not the only one grateful for the return of the camouflage shorts. After the black pair the day before, they are not nearly as alluring, but they remind Sherlock of the first time he saw the stranger and his breathing stops.

“Guh,” he manages, and his cock does its best to stand at attention and salute the oncoming soldier. Startled to find his body far more patriotic than he had initially assumed, Sherlock is frozen in place, still half-bent in a stretch toward his pointed toe. 

The man is getting closer, looking at him curiously where Sherlock stands in the middle of the running path, all arms and legs and wide, leering eyes. Sherlock is reasonably sure there is a river of drool running over his bottom lip. He offers a smile that he hopes isn’t washed away by the waterfall of saliva. 

Pausing in his singing, the soldier returns the smile and darts around him, close enough that Sherlock smells the sun on his skin and feels the breeze of his passing. 

Barely catching himself from collapsing face-first onto the concrete path, he hears the soldier resume his singing.

_“Sweatin’ in the drawers, yeah, hard and long, back that ass up.”_

His patriotic cock dumps its payload in his shorts. 

***

After waving off the teasing words of his unwanted entourage, Sherlock stumbles home to clean up. Fresh from the shower and dressed in his typical attire, he glowers out the window until the afternoon passes into evening. Slipping into a reverie, he loses himself in his thoughts until the sun falls. 

Somewhere just after 5 am, restless and worked up, Sherlock wanders out of the flat and back to the park. His mind is filled with images of ranger panties and well-endowed soldiers packing heavy heat, and he feels faint with the imagery.

As he passes through one of the well-maintained fields, he nearly swallows his own tongue in shock.

Several meters away, wearing the black shorts with the mesh panels and nothing else, body lowering and raising in controlled, one-handed push-ups, is the soldier. Even his feet are bare, toes curling into the damp grass, sinking into the soft earth. The muscles of his arm flex, shoulders steady as he drops inches above the ground and pops back up. His voice drifts on the still-dark morning air, heavy with controlled, panting breathing.

_“If you're horny, let's do it. Ride it, my pony. My saddle's waiting, come and jump on it."_

Despite sinking his teeth against his lip to try and hold it back, Sherlock voices a low, wanton groan. “Oh my god…”

In the middle of switching arms, the soldier plants both palms against the ground and raises his head, startled. 

“Um,” says Sherlock, eyes fastening on the man’s face. _“UM.”_

When the man hops backward, settling on his heels with his knees falling open, Sherlock’s heart stops, stutters and hammers hard enough to send him swooning toward a tree. He catches himself on the trunk, blinking with the afterimage of the soldier’s missile silo burned into his eyes. Blinded, he misses it when a presence appears at his side, a hand dropping onto his bent back.

“Are you okay?” 

The voice is a pleasant tenor and breathless with exertion, the bitter smell of sweat and endorphins washing over Sherlock until his vision goes black at the edges. 

“I think I’m having a stroke,” he babbles before the hand on his back is bending him over. The soldier helps Sherlock bend toward his own knees, forcing Sherlock to bite his tongue to keep a display of patriotic appreciation from going off in his pants. Even so, Sherlock's soldier-happy cock does its best impression of a flagpole and waves against the constricting confines of his trouser leg.

“Just breathe,” the soldier orders, and Sherlock nearly comes undone. “You’re not having a stroke, you’re just hyperventilating. Deep, slow breaths.” 

“Army-doctor,” Sherlock gasps and the man’s hand twitches against his back with surprise. “You’re… an… army-doctor!” Straightening, Sherlock blinks rapidly and tries to look the stranger in the eye. “That’s why you almost stopped, the other day.”

The man’s eyes narrow. “The other day…” his eyebrows fly up, mouth falling open with recognition. “You’re that bloke from the bench, the one who was gasping like a dying fish! I thought you were choking.”

 _Oh, god, let me choke on your flagstaff,_ Sherlock thinks, clenching his teeth before realizing the man is staring at him because the words _actually left his mouth._

“Oh, um, I—” he begins but a hand clamps over his mouth, forcing him into silence. With his head pushed back against the tree, Sherlock finds the soldier crowding forward, the scent of salty, musky sweat nearly suffocating him. 

“Did you just say you wanted to… choke on my…” the soldier’s brow furrows. “...‘flagstaff?’” 

Eyes wide, head restricted, Sherlock offers a jerky nod. The man’s pale eyelashes flutter, and Sherlock groans against his palm. Dropping his hand to Sherlock’s collarbones, he stares at Sherlock’s mouth as the detective gasps, “Yes, oh god, yes, _please.”_

The soldier stares a little longer. His eyes, startlingly blue this close, flecked with hazel and gold, flicker over his face, studying, working toward a decision. To Sherlock’s shock, the man’s lips quirk in a gorgeous smirk, white teeth flashing in his tanned face. 

“Well, since you said ‘please’...” 

Sherlock doesn’t need any further permission. Slithering out of his coat and out from beneath the man’s hand, he tilts forward and breathes against a sweat-damp neck, “Trade places with me.” 

Grinning, the soldier locks his hands on Sherlock’s hip and lifts him with ease, turning to deposit him in his place as he sets his own back against the tree. Dizzy with the sudden movement, Sherlock sways, stares in awe at the man in front of him and drops to his knees. The grass is still wet, dew seeping through the knees of his trousers, but Sherlock doesn’t care. Barely registers the sensation as he runs his hands up the soldier’s calves, over his thighs and to the edge of the ridiculously short bottoms. The fabric is soft and slippery, the mesh a rough grid under his fingertips. Rubbing the material between his fingers reverently, Sherlock looks up at the man standing over him.

“What is your name?” 

“John,” the man replies. Reaching down to grip Sherlock by the chin, he bends and breathes against his lips, “But you can call me _Captain Watson.”_

A shiver works through Sherlock, and he closes his eyes with an almost pained sigh. “Captain Watson,” he repeats, eyes fluttering open to catch a flash of lust over John’s face. It darkens his eyes as his tongue darts out to wet his lips, and then that tongue is in Sherlock’s mouth, tracing over his bottom lip, tasting his low groan. Sherlock presses upward, sucks first on John’s tongue before tugging his upper lip into his mouth with his teeth and sucking on that as well. 

John trembles, moaning deep in his throat. Biting at Sherlock’s lip in return, he leans his head back, breaking the kiss. “Bloody fucking _hell,”_ he curses, nuzzling under Sherlock’s jaw to get his teeth against his throat. “Please tell me that’s not all you can do with that mouth of yours.” 

Sherlock grins, sliding his hands higher, palms gliding over the hard press of John’s sizable manhood beneath the shorts. “How about I show you instead?” 

Eyes almost rolling back in his head, John nods, breathless and already aching for it. “Oh my god, yes. I’m clean, they always test us when we go on leave and after. Oh, god, fucking please.” 

Smirking, Sherlock hooks his fingers on the waistband of the silkies, pausing to flick a look up at John, red-faced and wide-eyed above him.

“Yes, _Captain Watson.”_

At John’s groan, Sherlock tugs the shorts down. It is still dark, the sky just barely beginning to lighten at the edges of the horizon, and the park is empty save for the two of them and the birds waking in the tree above. John smells like exertion and arousal. Sherlock frees him from the shorts, delighted to find his assumption of size blessedly correct and that he is more than willing to dedicate his life to the worship of the cock before him. 

The head is pinkish-red and already slick with a dribble of fluid, the pre-come brushed away by his eager tongue passing over the tip. Above him, John makes a low choking sound and Sherlock moans, sliding his tongue along the underside as he takes the end in his mouth. 

Finally, a good use for all the extra saliva this miracle of a man encourages his mouth to produce. 

Sherlock swirls his tongue and takes John’s cock deeper, hollowing his cheeks with the slick slide of hard flesh against his soft palate. John’s hands find his hair, fingers anchoring in the curls, pulling until little tears spring up at the corners of Sherlock’s eyes. They increase and spill over when John’s hips jerk forward, pushing the head of his cock to the back of Sherlock’s throat. Forcing the muscles there to relax, Sherlock gags and doubles down. 

“Oh my god, oh my god,” John chants, working his nails against Sherlock’s scalp. The sensation makes him purr, rumbling deep in his throat, and John’s words turn breathy and desperate. “I don’t even know your name, but oh my god, I could marry that mouth. _Fuck.”_

Whimpering at the press of his own erection against the inside of his pants, Sherlock slips his mouth back up John’s shaft. He tongues over the slit at the end and plunges back down as far as he can, drawing a strangled cry from John’s lips. As he works his hand into his own trousers, getting a clumsy fist around himself, he looks up at John and nods, using his free hand to pull the soldier’s hips forward. John’s eyes fly wide with understanding before falling shut with a sigh. “Oh, _yes.”_

With John’s hands in his hair, cock fucking hard and rough into his mouth, Sherlock jerks himself with graceless strokes. Breathing with difficulty, he focuses on not choking every time John presses into the back of his throat. Shoving forward one last time, his balls drawn up and tight against Sherlock’s bottom lip, John howls, _“Fuckkk, ohhhhhhh,”_ and comes hard down his throat. The sound and sensation push Sherlock over the edge, and he shudders through his own climax, spilling over his hand and between John’s bare feet.

Sherlock swallows John’s messy release with difficulty, coughing as semen dribbles out the sides of his mouth as John guides his softening cock out from between Sherlock’s swollen lips. 

“That was,” John gasps, sagging against the tree, “the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.”

Looking up at him, Sherlock wipes come from his face and grins. “And you invaded Afghanistan.”

Shaking his head, skull lolling over the rough bark, John utters a breathless little laugh. “That wasn’t just me. Oh my god, I just let some bloke blow me in Regent’s Park.” 

Sherlock licks his lips, does up his zip and reaches out to tuck John back into his ridiculous little shorts before rising to his feet. Letting his hands rest on John’s twitching hips, Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “Problem?”

“God, no,” John groans. His hand fists in Sherlock’s hair, wrenching his head down to his level to lick a spot of his own release off his bottom lip. “Please tell me you live nearby.”

Sherlock’s grin widens. “I do. Care to accompany me home?”

John sinks his teeth against Sherlock’s shoulder before licking a stripe up his neck. “Oh, god, _yes.”_

_And, just for the visuals, here are said 'Silkies'._

**Author's Note:**

> Songs quoted in this fic:  
>  _kiss the tip, gently flow, be my ho_ \- This is How it Works (TLC)  
>  _so sweet, you make my mouth water_ \- I Want Candy (Aaron Carter)  
>  _lick him like a lollipop should be licked_ \- Shoop (Salt-N-Pepa)  
>  _bye, bye, bye_ \- Bye, Bye, Bye (N'Sync)  
>  _gotta rub me the right way, honey_ \- Genie in the Bottle (Christina Aguilera)  
>  _sweatin’ in the drawers, yeah, hard and long, back that ass up_ Back That Azz Up (Juvenile)  
>  _if you're horny, let's do it. Ride it, my pony. My saddle's waiting, come and jump on it_ Pony - (Ginuwine)


End file.
